In Cartagena, the sun not only warms the skin—it also ignites the bodies that choose to resist. Here, where the Caribbean resonates with the sound of drums and the salty breeze, you can also hear the echo of heels marking territory, of footsteps that say, “We’re here, this is where we’re from, and this is where we’re staying.” In this city of contrasts, the ballroom has become a space of resistance and healing: a refuge where dissident bodies come together, claim their identities, and rebuild themselves through art.

My first introduction to the ballroom was thanks to my sister Queen Orion (Sary), who, alongside her collective Voguea en el Aleteo, led a project called Tur Voguea en el Aleteo. Through this project, I learned about the roots of this culture: its categories, its history, its struggles. I came to understand that the ballroom is Black, trans, and deeply political, because it was created by Black trans people who found in dance a way to exist when the world denied them everything. In its early days, the ballroom was a home, a refuge, and a family for those who had been cast out of their homes for loving differently, for being different, for dreaming differently.

That’s why every vogue, every runway, every lip sync is an act of remembrance. To inhabit the ballroom is to acknowledge that legacy and to be careful not to erase or disrespect its essence. It means understanding that culture is neither copied nor trivialized, but rather honored. And it also means recognizing that behind the glitter, the feathers, and the applause lies a process of grief, pain, and struggle. Ballroom is a school of freedom, but also of consciousness: there, we learn to look at others with respect, to understand the history that made it possible for us to exist with pride today.

Although I am not a leader within the ballroom, this space has been key to understanding my own struggle outside of it. My activism stems from other spheres, especially educational settings, where being a trans woman is still experienced as a constant battle against symbolic violence, discrimination, and stigma. In college, I’ve learned that often it’s not enough to be a good student or to have talent; sometimes I have to explain, over and over again, that my existence also deserves respect.

For me, being a trans woman means rebelling against a sexist, oppressive, and misogynistic CIStem that dictates how we should look, behave, or feel. It is understanding the body I inhabit and the place I occupy in society; it is being a body on the run from the aesthetic violence that dictates how a woman should look and from the biologistic discourse that attempts to define us based on what we are not. Being trans is learning to inhabit the margins and turn them into a stronghold. It is resisting through self-care, through tenderness, through the possibility of building a life of my own amid the noise.

Being trans in Cartagena is also a daily act of courage. It means walking down streets where people often don’t look at us with empathy, where difference is still mistaken for a threat. But it also means finding strength in love, in others, in those who share this journey. In that sense, the ballroom becomes a mirror and a respite: it reminds us that art can be a refuge, but also a revolution. That the bodies that dance, that shine, that reveal themselves, are also healing the wounds left by a society that doesn’t always embrace us.

Out of this need to create our own safe spaces was born my project Transgrediendo Vidas (TRAVI_CTG), a space I co-founded with my sister Diva Curdis. It is a youth collective that seeks to heal through art, mental health, and human rights. Diva and I dream of building spaces for dialogue, learning, and support—places where other trans girls can feel safe, where they can recognize themselves without fear, where the word “identity” is not a burden but a celebration. Transgrediendo Vidas has taught me that resistance is also about self-care and that art can be a tool for emotional and social transformation.

At TRAVI, we’ve learned that healing is a political process: that the mental health of sexually and gender-nonconforming people cannot be separated from the structural violence we face. That every hug, every conversation, every art workshop, or collective gathering is also a form of healing. We dream that our experiences will help build a more empathetic Cartagena, where diversity is not a reason for exclusion, but for learning.

The ballroom, in all of this, has been a school of self-love, community, and resistance. It has allowed me to meet wonderful people, with different stories but a shared need: to exist in freedom. Its events blend anger, joy, memory, and hope. It is a space where dissent isn’t hidden—it’s danced. In every competition, there’s something deeper than a category or a trophy (GP): there’s a declaration of life. Every movement is a manifesto, every pose a reminder that we’re still here, that no one has been able to erase us.

And when something doesn’t go as I hope, when life puts me on pause or shows me an uncertain path, I remember a phrase that has always stayed with me: “Today’s chops are tomorrow’s teens.” Words from my sister Queen that remind me that stumbles are also part of growth, that every fall is a rehearsal for continuing to shine, to keep creating, to keep being. I carry that phrase with me on difficult days, when exhaustion or frustration set in, because it reminds me that even losses can be transformed into momentum.

Because ballroom has not only shown me the beauty of movement, but also the strength of community. In every performance, in every knowing glance, in every shared story, I’ve found healing. There, where the music swells and bodies come alive, bonds are forged, networks are built, and old wounds are healed. The ballroom taught me that healing isn’t always silence: sometimes it’s also noise, sparkle, and movement.

And with every step I take, I reaffirm that existing as a dissident in Cartagena is an act of love and resistance. Walking in heels on these streets isn’t just an aesthetic statement: it’s a way of telling the world that we’re still here—alive, dignified, and free. That resistance can also be beautiful, that healing can also be collective, and that the Caribbean can also be a place for all identities that dare to flourish, even when no one is expecting them.